


Forget It, And Pour A Drink

by PondWriter1300



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger John, Like, M/M, SO, Short as hell, confused gays, drugs are mentioned, no beta we die like men, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 21:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17947313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PondWriter1300/pseuds/PondWriter1300
Summary: Drugs? No. Loneliness and depression? Most definitely! It's okay though, a confession is involved.





	Forget It, And Pour A Drink

**Author's Note:**

> Hell with it, I was bored.

The night John knew of Sherlock’s love for him was a quiet night. So quiet that a lonely detective refused to make a sound when he slinked around the empty floors of his abode. The lights of Baker Street dimmed in a soft haze like the sun was setting a second time, bringing no sort of comfort. Sherlock didn't recognize the sound of footsteps on the hard mahogany steps leading to the flat, his head crammed in his hands as he’d sat down with a cup of already cooled tea. 

Tears were brimming in his eyes and he sighed out a soft moan of anguish. He tried to pull a certain tenacious and persistent feeling of sadness from him, tried to draw it out of himself without expressing or emoting such a disgusting feeling. That one time, it didn’t work for Sherlock Holmes. Wet, warm tears pooled and freed themselves, sliding down pale cheeks and falling. He expressed a shaky sob from the tears, jaw clenching against it, hands gripping his hair and tugging it. He felt suffocated like someone had just put a pillow around his head and wouldn’t let him breath, like he was drowning in warm water and held down by his own hands. It was a revolting experience. He shook like a leaf, closing in on himself further and further, gut-wrenching cries now leaving his body. This was ridiculous, ludicrous, and stupid. No man such as himself should spend time with petty feelings such as those. They were useless and unhelpful and eventually would fade. They were wasting his time and so was he when he chose to indulge them. 

He shook his head, sucked in a breath, and pulled himself up, wiping tears on his shoulders and slinking into the kitchen, searching for some kind of nicotine, or drug, or fucking anything. It would calm him, it would get his brain in gear so he could get to work. He scrambled through the drawers, slamming them shut when there was nothing to be found. This was ridiculous! He dad to have some kind of vice around here, something that’d work. He’d just have to find it. Or buy it. He didn’t care which option took more time, he just needed the end product. 

And then he heard it, the shuffle of feet and a defeated sigh. Sherlock turned with a snap of his body, completely rigid, red eyes bright in the flourescent light. He gazed at the man before him, his shoulders slumping, and a broken smile cracking his face. 

“John.” He murmered softly, stepping forward, seeking a company that would drag him from the dreaded emotions that, frankly, were quite rude for interrupting his work. John took a step backward, eyes cold and mouth grimaced in a frown. Watson let his gaze fall over the Detective’s body, not liking what he found.

“You’re on it again, aren’t you.” No a question, but a accusation. A confirmation. John’s face was absolute stone, like he’d been frozen horribly by his own thoughts. Sherlock gaped at him, feeling betrayed. And then he considered exactly what he’d been caught doing, and exactly how he looked in front of the doctor. That wasn’t an outlandish assumption, and Sherlock didn’t know how to explain himself, considering that half of it was true.

“No, John, no, I was trying to--”  
“Absolute bullshit, Sherlock! You fucking cock! It’s been three damned weeks since I’ve seen you, and you just fall apart? Have some backbone, man!” He shouted, eyes alit in anger. His fists were clenched at his sides, his shoulders rigid. It seemed like the previous stone aspect of his face had transferred to the rest of his body because he held himself impossibly still. Still besides the heavy breaths that he was pulling through his chest. Quite a nice chest, really. And then Sherlock noticed that John was still talking.  
“--gotten yourself killed, damn it! Why do you do this? I thought you were clean, but obviously, the bright-fucking-red rings around your eyes portray differently! How long Sherlock? How fucking long? A week? Two! Damn it! I-” 

And then Sherlock did something impossibly stupid. It was out of his mouth before he could even think it, and he couldn’t imagine why exactly it felt so satisfying and right at the moment.

“You- you what?” He stuttered. Now the entirety of his body was stone. Even his eyes. Sherlock decided that a shame considering how pleasingly beautiful they were. 

“I love you, John Watson. Do with that information what you will, but know it is the truth.” He sighed and shrugged, walking past a stunned married man and sitting down in his chair, sipping now disgustingly ice-cold tea he left there and owning it, ignoring its sour taste. He’d already gone that far, why stop? I mean, he’d already possibly broke their friendship beyond repair, what’s the harm in trying to pursue a fantasy? I mean, if it didn’t work out, suicide was still an option. 

At first, John just turned to meet his gaze and gawked. He obviously tried to get his brain going, to keep it from stalling a second time, but unsurprising failed to do so, and instead prompted to let a series of questions, so Sherlock’s brain had to do all the work of answering. 

“When did you know? Why? Don't you know I’m married? You were there. Wait, are you just trying to distract me? Because if that’s the case, then-” Sherlock bluntly cut him off, his own face now stone. Informational stone, he concluded. 

“No, I’m not on drugs, completely clean. Yes, I was looking for some. I’ve cried every night since your wedding, hence the blotchy face and eyes. And I miss you. So I just expect you to ignore this whole ordeal and go back to Mary. You don’t have to tell her anything, I believe she knows already. I don’t know when I realized it, but I know now, so I guess that counts for something. I do not resent Mary, and don’t think I’m lying. If I wasn’t gay, I’d be open to a polygamous relationship between the three of us. You two are perfect, and I wouldn’t disrupt that for the world. I only mentioned that I have feelings for you to shut you up. Now,” he smiled a sad smile. “Stop hiding that bottle of whiskey behind your back and pour us some glasses, please. I’m impossibly parched.”


End file.
